


Doing The Right Thing

by thereisaredeemer



Category: Arc of a Scythe Series - Neal Shusterman, Bourne (Movies), Bourne Series - All Media Types, The Bourne Identity (2002), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29786685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereisaredeemer/pseuds/thereisaredeemer
Summary: Citra Terranova was stranded in a pre-post-mortal world three-and-a-half years ago. She had accepted her fate. Then her lonely ghost life was stirred up when a red Mini Cooper swerved in front of her car—its driver, the man from the Embassy. Will she be brave enough to do the right thing by him?
Kudos: 1





	1. "Deal."

**Author's Note:**

> I watched The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, The Bourne Ultimatum, and Jason Bourne for the first time a few weeks ago. I pretty much fell in love with those movies so I read the first book and book two is on hold at the library. Has anyone else read it? This here just happened and I would love to know what you guys think of it. The premise of the story is: what if Jason got tangled up with someone with a similar skill set and sent Marie away, what would change?
> 
> Scythe fans: Names and dates may not be entirely accurate. And, I mean, are we ever told what Citra looks like? Corrections are welcome.
> 
> Translations are at the end.

The man with the orange cable-knit sweater hung by his fingers from the stone molding on the American Embassy building wall. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if this was the most natural thing to be doing in Zurich, Switzerland, he slid each hand along the ice-slick surface and crept down the wall. He never once looked down to the snow covered ground. If he had, he would have seen her. He placed each hand like he knew where the next would be put a moment later. He probably did. He was a human weapon, that much she could tell. She could read people well. Goodness knew that the Honorable Scythe Faraday and the Honorable Scythe Curie had taught her that at least. They had taught her that and so much more. They had been the ones to impart to her the skills that she needed to survive in this strange and alien world.

They were both dead now, or at least gone. Though maybe she was the one who was gone. Perhaps the Thunderhead had managed to create a dimension-traveling mechanism or a time machine. But why she, a scythe of all people and she in particular, had been chosen for such a fate she didn’t understand. It was impossible. The Thunderhead could not interfere with the Scythedom and she was part of the Scythedom, she was a scythe. But scythe or not she could not escape the reality that she was stranded in a pre-post-mortal world. The Thunderhead did not exist here. The Thunderhead could not return her to her horribly corrupted post-mortal life. She would have to deal with the Age of Mortality.

When she had appeared in Greece with a long wicked gash down her arm in her bloodstained and artfully faded turquoise robes and her strange ring and accent demanding access to the Thunderhead she had garnered more attention than she had liked. It had taken her only a few hours to learn that scythes did not exist in this world, that the Thunderhead did not exist and even the idea of it was unwelcome, and that it was best if she stayed off everyone’s radar unless she wanted trouble. She had burned her robe in a ditch while her nanites had healed her torn arm and then immediately set her mind to learning everything she could about her new world.

In school she had studied intensely before being apprenticed to Scythe Faraday and she had studied far more in depth and far more expansively under his guidance. Scythe Curie had continued that education as well. Even Rowan had trained with her in the time she had spent with him on the run, though to be fair he had mostly hardened her already hard body and left her historical, linguistic, and mathematic studies alone.

She had sifted through the Internet—a far more difficult task than sorting through the Thunderhead’s backbrain—and been glad for all her previous practice. Even so she had made numerous mistakes before she picked up the skills needed to blend in to the background and leave not a whisper of a trace for anyone to follow.

She had spent two years on that mission and the things she had learned had horrified, amazed, and confused her. There were so many countries run and led by so many republics, presidents, politicians, militaries, dictators, kings, and businessmen; there were thousands upon thousands of languages, and tens of thousands of people groups. There were tens of hundreds of world currencies all of different values—a strange concept that she could barely wrap her mind around. There were hundreds of religions; and each and every job and career was necessary to the community. Some would argue that statement, but to produce the product or a service those workers were needed to complete the work. The police officers and members of the militaries across the world were needed to keep order.

There was no Thunderhead.

That was what she had continuously come back to. There was nothing to tie her to her past home. Only her ring . . . and that too she eventually hid, unwilling and unable to destroy it.

It had taken her an entire year more to wipe all trace of her existence off the Internet and out of other official and unofficial records. Then, at age twenty-one, three-and-a-half years after watching Rowan sacrifice his life for her freedom and arriving in this strange world, she was free to make a life for herself.

She had moved from Kardista, Greece, where she had appeared, to Krusevac, Serbia within three months and then went on to Venice, Italy nine months later before settling semi-permanently in the area in and around Bucharest, Romania. In each of those cities as well as the many cities she had passed through in transit she had learned the patterns of the cultures simply because they had fascinated her. She had also learned their official languages well enough to be understood. She had avoided making friends. She had avoided creating a routine for her life. When she felt like she had been in a place too long she left.

Then, when she could go wherever, become whatever, she instead took a plane to Surat, India and broke down. There she came to grips with the reality of everything that had happened in the last six-and-a-half years. The life she had lost and the one she had gained temporarily as a MidMerican scythe. The family that lived now only in her memory, her brother Ben. Rowan who had self-gleaned as his end of the bargain he had made for her life. The impossibility of all that had happened since. She had stayed two months there in the shadows before slipping away unmissed. Since then she had wandered from country to country, continent to continent, gypsy-like, unknown and unseen.

She had been in Zurich nine days and had been on her way out of the city, headed for Luxembourg, when she had looked up, some instinct warning her that she was not alone. Not many people caught her attention. But he was one of them, but she wasn’t yet certain if he interested her enough to tempt her to leave the shadows and risk the security cameras. Twenty-three-year-old Citra Terranova was restless for something other than her bland existence as a ghost—and she was not even that really for that implied that she had once been known by someone—but she wasn’t a fool. The stranger struck her as similar to Rowan in the deadly aura he exuded, but she desperately hoped he was not like her dead boyfriend, Rowan had stirred up far too much trouble, he had been too perfect a killer, Scythe Goddard had trained him too well. It was once in a lifetime that someone trained in that way could retain their hold on their humanity.

When the man dropped to the ground in a crouch all she had left were her foot prints in the shadows, but she was still watching. She saw him make his deal with a woman in a red Mini Cooper. She saw the security camera high above and knew that soon there would be men on their tail. She slipped away, intent upon leaving the strange man to his own devices and continuing on to Luxembourg.

Fifteen minutes later that same red Mini swerved onto the road in front of her. Law enforcement cars and road-patrol motorbikes swarmed the road after the it. Citra stared out her windshield. An instant later she swerved out of the way of an over exuberant motorbiker. She cursed under her breath, she did not want a scratch on this car even if she was going to leave it in a parking garage. Then the Mini swerved into oncoming traffic and cars began piling up. Cursing louder, she avoided the accident, mentally thanking Marie for teaching her to drive so well and blessing Rowan for insisting on tweaking her nanites to give her better reflexes. Fifteen minutes later she entered a public parking garage where she had decided to abandon the car, wipe it down for finger prints and DNA, and eat her lunch.

Cruising though as she searched for an acceptable parking slot, she rolled her eyes. It was just her luck to enter the same garage as the Mini! She parked with a sigh and began eating her sandwich. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice her.

While she chewed she kept her eyes peeled for any suspicious movement. She had just finished and was beginning to wipe down the inside of the car when she felt the slight lurch of her vehicle as though some extra weight had landed atop it. For a moment she paused her work, fixing her eyes on the roof of the car. Then she sighed and began again. Oh,well, I’l deal with that later.

When she opened her door she was met with the tall stranger. His fist was snapping toward her face. She ducked and lashed out with a few well placed Bokator moves. This seemed to surprise him but he adjusted easily and continued his attack. For all her experience he was too good. It was like battling Rowan when he wanted to win. Within minutes she would be overpowered if she continued like this. A split second later she had brought one of her knives into play and had adjusted her technique to incorporate her bladecraft skills and her opponent was frozen with her knife at his throat.

Panting, she glared at him. “What is with you?”

He was breathing hard as well and staring at her. “You followed us here. Who sent you?”

“Followed you? If I had wanted to follow you, you never would have noticed! Just like if I wanted you dead I could have killed you at the Embassy in Switzerland!” She snatched her knife from his neck and sheathed it, ignoring his momentarily startled expression. “Honestly, the nerve!” With a shake of her head Citra returned to wiping down the car. The man didn’t move. A minute passed. Citra glanced over the dim parking garage, spying the woman who had been convinced to drive him to Paris. She grimaced. “Your ride isn’t trained for this. She’ll get killed.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“That’s a lie and you know it. I can get her out of the country and give her a new identity.”

He didn’t reply.

“She’ll be safe. You have my word.”

“What do you get out of the arrangement?” he asked reluctantly.

“I stay invisible, and, I annoy the hell out of some of the higher ups.”

His lips pressed together, searching for a way around her logic. “Deal.”

She nodded absently as she surveyed her work. Done. Untraceable. Rowan would have been proud. She smiled and accompanied the man to the Mini Cooper where the woman was standing. The man opened the trunk and pulled out a bag. He gave it a nod and slung it over his shoulder. Then he pulled a cap from another and stuffed it over his head, pulling it over his eyes.

“Ist estwas unrecht, Jason?"

The man looked up at the nervous woman. “Nein. Nein, es ist alles in Ordnung. Ich bin verlassen du mit ihr. Sie wird dich außer Landes bringen."

“Aber—"

“Ich mache das richtige, Marie. Das ist zu deinem eigenen besten."

“Was ist wenn ich nicht will dass du gehst? Was ist wenn ich helfen möchte?"

“Das ist endgültig. Auf Wiedersehen."

And then he was gone. The woman, Marie—the familiar name choked Citra up slightly— whirled on her. “Scheisse! Wer bist du—! Was hast du gesagt zu him you—you had no—”

Citra didn’t react to the bilingual barrage, hardly caring for what the woman thought of her. “Did he already wipe it down?”

Marie stopped short. “What?”

“Did he wipe the car down for prints?”

The woman stared for a moment. “Yes.”

Citra nodded. So only the trunk would have his prints. She could deal with that. She rummaged through the bags of clothes and sorted out what she wanted while the woman watched in defeated silence. “Put these on and hold this.” She handed her the knee-length hooded jacket, gloves, and bag. Marie obeyed. Citra wiped down the trunk and banged it shut. “Follow me. Step where I step. Do as I say, when I say it.”

Then she started walking. Marie followed. Together they melted into the flow of people walking through the streets of Paris. They were unnoticeable women taking an afternoon walk, who just happened to also avoid every camera in the city. Two hours later they slipped into the cheap hotel that Citra had reserved a room in.

In her mind as long as Marie stayed in the room and didn’t make a commotion or disturb her, all was well. She said as much to her companion.

Citra sorted through her bag and removed one of her passports; she studied the ID on it. Three hours later she had altered it to look like Marie—if Marie had a different hair styled wore a bit of makeup. Another hour later Marie’s hair had been dyed and she could apply the makeup in just such the way that Citra required.

“So what is my name?” Marie asked hesitantly.

Citra handed her the passport. “AnnaMarie May. You are a student in university studying German Literature in Luxembourg, Germany. You grew up in the foster-care system. You must at least pretend to enjoy studying; you must graduate. You cannot continue Marie’s gypsy-like ways. You want a fixed future. You don’t take risks. You want to get married and settle down.”

“German Lit.?”

“Yes.”

AnnaMarie shook her head in denial. “I’m not enrolled in any university . . . .”

“You are.” Citra corrected. “You will be arriving in Luxembourg in two weeks. You have an apartment leased at this address,” she handed the paper with the addresses over, “and three job interviews scheduled.”

“How?” AnnaMarie asked helplessly.

Citra smiled. “I am very good at what I do. Get some sleep, we have a plane to catch tomorrow.”

Two weeks later Citra had helped AnnaMarie settle into her apartment and drilled it into her that she could not ever return to her old ways. Then she left. She had intended to stay in the city, but she had grown listless there.


	2. "Breathe, soldier!"

She kept wandering. From Luxembourg to Venice, from Venice to Amman.

Greece.

Syria.

Canada.

Brazil.

India.

She found him again in India. She had known he was in the city but had avoided him. She didn't want anything to do with him. When she noticed the Russian assassin in the bar and seen the picture he flashed with the smooth lie of a death in the family she found him as quickly as she could. Avoiding him be damned! Past days had seen him running on the beach at this time. She wasn't sure he would keep up the routine, but it was worth a try.

In the end Citra didn't need to look anywhere. She ran into him in the street. Grabbing his wrist she tugged him down so that she could hiss the English words "Tall, Russian, needs a shave, sniper, on your tail, get out of here now" in his ear and then she shoved him away.

Turning around she caught the Russian's trail, and in a daring moment, commandeered a motorcycle and took off after his silver car. She kept her head down and kept him in her sights. Eventually she came to the place where the man from Zurich had gone off-road and the Russian had left his car. Stopping only long enough to shoot out his tires, she sped through the grasses and managed to swerve onto the road behind the Jeep. Halfway over the bridge a bullet whizzed past Citra's ear and found its target in the body of the man behind the wheel. He slumped over and the four-wheeler swerved and dove over the side of the low-edged bridge. She slammed her brakes, taking fast shallow breaths, and took a flying jump over the edge after him.

Four minutes and thirty-two point eight seconds. That was how long she could hold her breath without passing out. How long could he? She sucked in a deep breath and the water closed over her head.

One . . two . . three . . four. .

It was warm and murky green, but as she swam deeper—toward the sinking hunk of metal—she felt the colder ocean water sweep against her.

Seven . . eight . . nine . . ten. .

Her nanites countered the cold and sharpened her vision.

Thirty-three . . thirty-four . . thirty-five . . thirty-six. .

She reached the door of the Jeep and cooly, calmly she reached through the window and unlocked and tried to open it.

Seventy-one . . seventy-two . . seventy-three . . seventy-four . .

The water fought her. The door opened. Then she reached over the lucid man and unbuckled him. She forced him up to the roof where there was a pocket of air.

One-hundred-twenty-six . . one-hundred-twenty-seven . . one-hundred-twenty-eight . . one-hundred-twenty-nine . .

"Breathe!" Citra gasped.

One-hundred-thirty-two . .

He didn't.

One-hundred-thirty-three . .

"Breathe! Just take the breath!"

One-hundred-thirty-seven . .

He didn't.

One-hundred-thirty-eight . .

Citra took in a gulp of air, pushed his chin up, pinched his nose, locked her lips around his and forced her breath into his lungs.

One-hundred-forty-six . .

He yanked away and gasped in a deep breath, his eyes opened.

One . .

He had air, she didn't. She clamped a hand over his mouth and nose as the last of the air bubbled out from the Jeep and it hit the riverbed.

Twelve . . thirteen . . fourteen . . fifteen . .

He didn't struggle as she drew him out and swam him to the surface under the center of the bridge.

Forty-three . .

His pulse was weak, but he was breathing as the floated, though at the moment she couldn't deal with his bullet wound.

"Another big breath, soldier, we're going back under." His eyes flickered open for a moment and he sucked in the breath obediently. She clamped her hand over his face once more, took a breath, and dove down.

One . . two . . three . . four . .

A steady dolphin-kick on her side while she held her limp burden away from her body powered her upriver a hundred yards.

One-hundred-ninety-two . . one-hundred-ninety-three . . one-hundred-ninety-four . . one-hundred-ninety-five . . . .

She broke the surface and floated on her back, gently kicking to shore. She dragged the waterlogged man up the bank and spread him out on the grass. His eyes were closed and his breathing dangerously nonexistent. Citra felt for his pulse and found it. "Breathe, soldier." He didn't react. With a quiet curse and a few deep breaths she began administering CPR. When he began breathing on his own she left off and began examining the small bullet hole in his chest. Miraculously, the bullet had missed his lungs but she still needed to disinfect and bandage the entry and exit wounds. This was one of those many times that she wished for the Thunderhead's ambudrones and revival centers, though at the moment she would be fine with just healing nanites to inject him with. Her experiments over the years with removing nanites from her blood had been unreliable at best and a complete disaster at worst. She always carried everything she owned with her at all times, so under her clothes and in different water-proofed pockets she carried an assortment of knives, passports, IDs, credit cards, licenses, medical supplies, computer flash drives, SIM cards, electrical cords, drugs, poisons, makeup, colored contact lenses, a gun, a bundle of slim cordage, and the syringe of extracted nanites. Without looking she knew that she had run out of disinfectant strong enough to cleanse his wound and that he had already lost too much blood for her to be able to do anything for him. With only minimal hesitation she removed the syringe from her arm holster and injected him with it. For Rowan.

If the experiment worked he would have her sickness, infection, pain, and healing nanites roaming his blood stream and making themselves at home. In three days only a faint scar would be left on his skin where the bullet had pierced him and in a month it would be gone. There was also a chance that his other scars would fade though she knew that they would not disappear entirely—that was what revival or other medical centers were for. If it failed then he would die. It was out of her hands so she left him and stole into his rented bungalow. She smiled appreciatively at his sparse lifestyle. It only took her half an hour to remove everything he owned—clothes, medicine, a gun, a journal, multiple passports, and about the equivalent of fifty-five-thousand US dollars in multiple world currencies—and wipe the place down for finger prints. When she left she dropped his rent money as well as an appropriately sized tip on the bed.

Returning to her new charge she found him conscious though lying still.

Dumping her sack of his belongings she leaned over him to check his wound.

"How did you find me?"

She glanced at his face. "It was a coincidence. I came here on a whim. It was just as coincidental that I noticed the Russian and found you in time."

"Thanks for that." He murmured. "Why did you do it anyway?"

Citra didn't speak for a long moment, and when she did she would not look at him. "You remind me of someone I used to know. He's dead now. Been dead for years."

The man nodded, eyeing the bag. "I remember going over the bridge. Nothing after that. How did I get here?"

Her fingers finished smoothing down the bandage on his chest as she related the events of the past hour.

"Well, I was on the motorcycle behind you and when you went over I followed, pulled you from the Jeep and swam you here. I did my best for that wound but you were too far gone . . . ." She trailed off.

"Then how am I talking to you?"

She pressed her lips together. "I cleared out your bungalow—how about I tell you as we drive?"

He nodded speculatively.


	3. "It's Jason, Jason Bourne."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scythe fans, if you remember the canonical year that Citra was born please take the time to tell me because I couldn't find it.
> 
> Bourne fans, when do the movies take place? I know when they are filmed, but do they have a particular year? I know it isn't the Cold War era like the books.

Once they were out of the city, Citra sighed, sensing the questions crowding on the tip of her charge's tongue. "Ask me a question. Any question about my past." He didn't reply right away and she sighed again, preparing for the vulnerability of the next few hours. "That will be a starting point at least," she muttered.

"Well then," he finally said, "who taught you how to fight like you did back in Paris?"

Citra frowned, not expecting that particular question so quickly, but refusing to back down. "My mentors, Scythes Faraday and Curie . . . my boyfriend Rowan . . . and experience."

He nodded, but didn't pry further into the delicate mater. "How about how you learned to forge documents? You are a forger?"

"I am," she agreed, "and I taught myself."

He was silent. "Mmm, when were you born?"

Here it went . . . . She took a deep breath, "In the year of the Gazelle. I believe the pre-post-mortal equivalent would be A.D. 2243."

Her passenger twisted sharply in his seat, grimaced with pain, blinked, opened his eyes wide, frowned as though trying to ignore something, and said, "It's 2003."

"I am aware." So he had begun experiencing the effect of his pain nanites. "Ask me another."

"What did you mean 'pre-post-mortal'?" he shot at her.

"I mean that I was raised in a world that was post-mortal—you couldn't die of old age."

She felt his disbelief radiate at her and then amusement, though he kept his face studiously neutral. "So you are telling me you are immortal?"

"No. The tech didn't stop a person from aging, it allowed them to reset their age again and again. That technology doesn't exist in this world so I age just like anyone else here."

"So how old are you?" It felt like he was almost daring her to say she was in her hundreds.

Citra smiled. She had been waiting for him to ask. "Twenty-five, give or take a few months."

He nodded patronizingly. "If you aren't from this world, how did you get here? Space shuttle?"

It annoyed her that even with the evidence in his body he wouldn't believe her. She scowled as she spoke. "I actually don't know how—well I know it wasn't space travel, for all the tech we had, space was off limits due to consistent sabotage of the spacecraft. There were some people who were afraid that if the space colonies that were created were a success they would lose their power." The tragedy that sentiment had caused had rocked the post-mortal world when it had been discovered.

"My theories range from inter-dimensional-travel, time-travel—or a mix of both—to this being a dream brought on by intense stress."

He chuckled softly, before sobering up and asking the question that all the rest had been leading up to:

"What did you do to me that made me heal so quickly?"

"Reseting your age or being revived after you died—if you had an accident—was only a small part of the medical tech we had. There was a special type of technology used everyday, in every aspect of life; it was injected into the bloodstream while the baby was still inside its mother's womb and stayed till gleaning. They were called nanites. Different types protected against different things: disease, infection, and pain. There were others that affected the mood, mindset, healing speed. You name it, your nanites could probably be tweaked to do it.

"Lost here, bored out of my mind, and surrounded by disease, I began experimenting on myself to see if I could remove a sample of my nanites from my blood to transfer to another person's body. Quite quickly I found that extracting them was extremely hard. It required a serious enough injury to bleed long enough for me to collect a large enough sample before my nanites sealed my skin, and then filtering them out of the blood itself was near impossible. Nanites are microscopic. Eventually I found a way to do so, but even after that I couldn't determine which of my nanites were present in the sample. Eventually I gave up the experiments, but saved the sample most likely to be useable. What I injected you with was that sample."

"So you are telling me that I will never again have to deal with the flu?"

"As I said, I never was able to determine which nanites were in the sample, but I wouldn't be surprised."

"One last question—you said 'till gleaning,' what does that mean?"

She winced, but answered.

"With immortality came overpopulation and the need to cull it." From the corner of her eye she saw his incredulity. "Thus the Sythedom was founded. A group of people were selected and trained to glean—kill, for killing it was, whatever name it was given—indiscriminately from the ever growing population. The Sycthedom—intended to be compassionate, wise, and honorable—became corrupt. Because even immortal, humans are human and thus susceptible to greed, prejudice, and cruelty. Some scythes conformed to the intention of the founders, but many others shrugged it off.

"At seventeen I was apprenticed to a scythe. I won't bore you with my training or with the drama, betrayal and chaos the choice of my sponsoring scythe to train two apprentices, instead of the traditional one, caused. Suffice to know that I was appointed Scythe Anastasia and that I immediately made as many enemies in five minutes as is posable." Her mouth stoped moving as her mind flashed back to the breathtaking image that Rowan had created as he wielded three knives through the ranks of startled scythes. "My fellow apprentice, sentenced to be gleaned by my hand by the Highblade, was incrediblyly skilled in all killcraft. Bladecraft was no exception." Citra shook her head. "In all my life I have never seen anything like what he did when I gave him immunity and those knives and told him there was a car outside the door." _Oh Rowan, why did you do it? You could have been free._

She shook off her nostalgia and summarized all she had said before, "In summery: I was born two hundred and forty years in the future in a world where death didn't really exist, I am a trained scythe, I have nanites in my blood that heal me at a spectacular rate...but I am just as mortal as anyone else."

He didn't reply for a long time and Citra didn't look at him. She had taken a leap and given him a gift. It was up to him to accept it. The miles sped onward as she drove.

"Okay. Okay, I think that's all I can say."

She relaxed slightly. A few more minutes passed before he asked in a different tone, "Where is Marie?"

That was something she could answer. Citra turned her head, noting the pale sheen on the man's face.

"She has a new identity and life in Germany. Any more information than that, soldier, and I risk setting you on her trail. She is safe and sound just as I promised."

He nodded gratefully, "Thank you—for that, and this," he gestured at himself, "whatever it is."

She scowled. "I didn't do it for you."

"I know," he agreed. "It was him, wasn't it?"

"Who? What?"

"You said I reminded you of someone. Your boyfriend, the apprentice. You did it for him."

She blinked. Then sighed. "Yes. Get some sleep, soldier."

"It's Jason, Jason Bourne."

She smiled. "Citra Terranova."

**Author's Note:**

> German Translation:  
> Ist estwas unrecht, Jason? - Is something wrong, Jason?  
> Nein. Nein, es ist alles in Ordnung. Ich bin verlassen du mit ihr. Sie wird dich außer Landes bringen. - No. No, everything’s fine. I’m leaving you with her. She will take you out of the country.  
> Aber— - But—  
> Ich mache das richtige, Marie. Das ist zu deinem eigenen besten. - I’m doing the right thing, Marie. This is for your own good.  
> Was ist wenn ich nicht will dass du gehst? Was ist wenn ich helfen möchte? - What if I don’t want you to go? What if I want to help?  
> Das ist endgültig. Auf Wiedersehen. - This is final. Goodbye.Scheisse! Wer bist du—! Was hast du gesagt zu him you—you had no— - Shit(*)!Who are you-! What did you say to him you — you had no—  
> (*)Or other inappropriate swear word, google translate won't make up its mind between them. Whichever it is it is used in the movie.
> 
> Bourne fans: I have noticed that the most popular pairing here is Nicky/Jason, but is there a reason for that? Why are they a couple? I personally like the Marie/Jason pairing best (especially the book Marie/Jason). Could someone tell me?


End file.
